Echoes of a Lullaby
by Harry Lvr
Summary: [oneshot, angst] Lily is going to die, she knows this, and she can no longer ignore it... AU


**Disclaimer:** If I own Harry Potter, I am rich. If I own Hush-a-bye, then it is not a traditional lullaby. I am poor and hush-a-bye is a traditional lullaby. Therefore, I do not own Harry Potter or Hush-a-bye. (try it, all you mathematicians – is it valid?) 

**Author's Note:** Beware the angst. Seriously – this is dark. Very angsty. Don't read if you're emotionally unstable or don't like angst. Don't say I didn't warn you!

Anyway, this little angst-fest is for Artemay, without whose encouragement I would never have bothered to get off my lazy arse and write this. Oh, and it's inspired by Neci's "The Dagger of Her Trade" which is much better than this so I suggest you go read it. And all credit for the title goes to Rosie, who deserves another big thanks for reading over this for me. I think that's all the formalities…

Oh, except to say that, yes, Lily _will_ seem slightly out-of-character. That's because this is AU, and no, I've tried my best and I can't get her any more in-character, so sorry bout that…

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Echoes of a Lullaby

_Hush-a-bye…_

The lullaby echoes through her head as she slips out from between the creamy sheets, bare feet silent on the carpeted floor. For a moment, she is silent, listening for any noise other than the heavy silence of the house even as she reminds herself that there is no one to hear. James is still asleep, sprawled out on the bed, and judging from the acrid scent of alcohol drifting to her nose, he will not wake any time soon. The sky outside is leaden with low, thick clouds, and she waits for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Vaguely, she can make out the white door in front of her, and she slowly pads towards it, her white frame glistening in the meagre, silvery light that survives the blanket of cloud.

She knows what it is she has to do; it has slowly been brewing in her mind ever since her baby decided he couldn't wait to join the world. At first, it was merely a niggling at the back of her mind, and she easily pushed it out. But it returned, softly at first, a wisp of doubt in a hopeful mind. Days melted into weeks, weeks lengthened into months, and the shadow grew thicker, stronger, sinking roots in the back of her mind and stretching tendrils towards her conscious thought.

James has the thought too, she thinks, but he is stronger, and he has found a way to ignore it. His cure may do more damage than the problem – his drunkenness has led to many tears and regrets, and she doubts the stench will ever fade from the room – but it helps him forget, helps him restrain himself. She knows this, and she forgives him, but she has no release, and she cannot ignore it…

…_don't you cry…_

Her chest is painfully heavy, a confused mass of emotions clawing at her from inside, but her eyes remain dry. She has not cried for months now, not since that first night when the puzzle pieces had suddenly slipped together and she had seen, with fearful clarity, the future her life would take. The anger and resentment had bubbled forth from her stomach, she had screamed her frustration for what felt like hours, cursing portraits and crockery alike to dust. The baby had sat there, his newborn eyes blinking slowly as his young mind tried to comprehend what he could not possibly understand. He found he couldn't, and in the weariness and stress of his attempt a little line appeared in his forehead, little tears appeared in his eyes, and he opened his mouth to cry.

It was the first time she had ever ignored him. She remembers, as she slinks down the hall, that day when she had crossed the invisible yet inevitable line, when she had watched the baby's mouth wobble and his eyes crumple, watched his fists slowly clench and his mouth open to cry. She had turned away and walked out the door, the baby's cries haunting her footsteps.

It was hours before she had returned, wearied and saddened, and James had been waiting for her. "How could you leave him?" he had asked in a whisper, hazel eyes flashing dangerously. "How could you just leave him here alone?"

His words had crashed onto her ears as she stood unmoving and indifferent; she felt separated from her body, and her words, empty of emotion, had cascaded out of her mouth without thought. "He'll kill us. Because of the baby. We're going to die, all of us, because of the baby."

For a moment, he had looked at her, letting her words sink into him. Then she had seen the helplessness in his eyes, the helplessness that reflected her soul, and she knew that it was true. He had wrapped his arms around her, and she had put her head on his shoulder and wept for the pain that his silent confirmation had brought. For hours, her tears had fallen from her eyes as her mind wandered the empty lanes of imagination, seeing the future she would never have, the memories she would never gain, the love she would never give. The life she would never, _could_ never, live.

Even then, the answer had been whispering in her ear, slithering in the depths of her mind, but she was too tender, too innocent to heed it. Now, it has broken her every resistance, and revulsion towards herself swells in her stomach, threatening to overcome her. But she continues, creeping down the hall as a cat slinks towards its prey, as an assassin sidles closer to its unassuming victim.

Because now she can see the real tragedy, and she can no longer resist. She can see that it is not the loss, for she has felt loss more times than she should have, she knows its ugly face, and she knows that it cannot destroy her. It is the waiting for him to come that chills her to the bone while it burns her and slowly consumes her from the inside out. It is the waiting that leaves her marriage bed so cold at night, that empties her husband's wine bottle, that dries her eyes and rips her heart to shreds. It is the waiting, she knows, that has killed what it means to be alive, and so it is the waiting that she must destroy.

And she is here because she knows that without his reason for coming, he will not come, and then they can emerge from this hell they have created for themselves and can learn once more to trust, laugh and live. They can leave their ghostly lives behind and start again – James will suspect, she knows this, but he will not leave her, for if he could only let himself it would be him creeping stealthily down this hallway, not her, and it would be him slowly easing the door open and padding silently towards the bed…

…_go to sleep-y little baby…_

It should be the easiest thing she has ever done, picking up that pillow, yet her hand trembles – she can see it, illuminated white as a ghost in the silver beams from the window – and the pillow weighs her down more than she could have thought possible. The baby is sleeping, not knowing that he will soon wake but will not be able to move, will not be able to breathe…

Her stomach cramps, and her revulsion once more swells inside her - it is all she can do to stop herself being sick down her front. Her throat burns, but her eyes remain dry, and her fingers tighten on the pillow until her tendons form stark, hard ridges on the back of her hand. She swallows – once, twice – and closes her eyes while she stiffens her spine. Her arm suddenly thrusts down and she looks away as she feels him squirm beneath her.

His feeble arms are flailing wildly, but they are no match for her strength and soon they begin to slow. His body still struggles, instinctively trying to find the oxygen that he needs so desperately. She holds firm, but her ghostly arms are shaking and she thinks that they will not hold much longer.

Her brain is numb, and no matter how hard she tries, she cannot loosen her fingers. She can feel the imprint of the cloth branding into her palm as surely as the skull and serpent brands into the forearms of murderers, and she shudders at the irony. Then the fight leaves the body beneath her – babies, she reflects, are here for so little time that they slip away again so easily – but she cannot bring herself to lift the pillow. She can see his face perfectly without it; the mottled blue skin, wide accusing green eyes – her own eyes, she realises suddenly, struggling to suppress the bile in her throat – the perfect lips, now slack, and the forehead that will never again crinkle in confusion or laughter…no, there is no need to see it in reality, to rub salt into an open wound.

But her mind unfreezes and she can no longer hold her countenance; her knees weaken and she runs for a basin before they collapse. Her stomach heaves, again and again, painful and unrelenting…

_…hush-a-bye…_

She regrets it, sometimes, when she sees the accusation in James' eyes, when she lies in bed, sore and bruising from his drunken retribution, and cannot bring herself to cry. Shudders wrack her small frame but she cannot help but feel strangely triumphant – his drinking has slowed and is now for leisure, save for the weeks surrounding the anniversary of his child's death. Then, he arrives home at dawn, hatred in his eyes and his fists clenched hard around the neck of the bottle, his clothes stinking of alcohol and piss and his hand hard as it delivers to her the fight that her baby was not strong enough to give.

She feels guilty, sometimes, when she remembers the other baby and his parents, Frank and Alice, and their faces haunt her and ask why she killed them. She pleads with them, tells them that it was Voldemort, but they shake their heads and ask again, wordlessly, blank eyes staring into her own. She turns away only to see her baby, green eyes accusing. 'You killed them', he seems to say, although his mottled skin does not move and his mouth cannot speak.

She misses him, sometimes, when another baby dies in mid-term. She cries for each miscarriage, and everyone tells her not to worry, that she will have a baby soon, but she knows that her first was her last. Fate does not feel compassion, and fate knows all secrets. She was not fit to be a mother, so she would never be a mother. She plays with her friends' children, and pretends they are her own, but there is a hole in her heart that they cannot mend and none of them have green eyes. And when she returns to her house, there is an empty room and no child to fill it, and she does not know what to do with herself.

She hates herself all the time, when she looks into a mirror and sees the green eyes staring back at her, when she passes the nursery room that is always so quiet, when she looks at her life and wonders why she wanted so desperately to live it. But most of all, she hates herself when silver moonlight illuminates her pale skin so that she looks like a ghost, a spectre searching, always searching but never finding her child. Most of all, she hates herself when people offer sympathy and she feels the ever-present revulsion swell in her stomach. And most of all, she hates the way that she lies in bed at night but sleep does not come, and the lullaby echoes mournfully, tauntingly, in her head…

…_hush-a-bye…_

_-fin_

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Comments? Suggestions? 

Was it too song-ficcy or not enough? Should I have left out the references to the lullaby or even left it out altogether? Too melodramatic? Plotless and pointless? Constructive criticism welcomed, loved and held in the highest esteem.

(Praising reviews welcomed also :-) )


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